Don Pendleton - Civil War II (30 page)

He slowly stood up and cautiously surveyed the surroundings. He noted the steel barrels alongside the road a short distance ahead, stared at them thoughtfully for a long moment, then he walked around to the driver's side and stood silently rolling the wet earth between thumb and forefinger.

"What's the matter?" the driver inquired, dabbing at dusted eyes.

"Ambush, I bet," Bartel said softly. "Don't let on we know. Act casual. Behind those barrels up there, I'd say." He took a backward step and placed a hand on the gunner's knee. "See those barrels up there on the right, Smitty? Well just look for now, but get that baby-doll of yours limber and ready and do it casual-like."

The Sergeant went to the rear of the jeep and pretended to inspect the undercarriage, then he moved back alongside the gunner. "When Ace and me hit the dirt, you tear hell out of those barrels and everything within five yards to either side. Ace and me will be sweeping in from the flanks, so keep us in sight. Now. Wait until I get around to the front. I want them to think I'm going around to climb back in. Get ready. The instant we hit the dirt, you cut loose—and man don't stop to wonder what you're shooting at, just do it."

He stepped back to stand beside the driver. "Lucky we're not fireballs already," he said. "Swing your feet out, Acey, but keep the upper part of your body straight ahead until you jump. Roll under the jeep if you—"

The world suddenly seemed to come aglow, as though a new sun had been added to the heavens, halting Bartel's instructions in mid-speech. The face of Ace Jenkens, behind the wheel of the jeep, glowed bright despite his

heavy pigmentation. Jenkins' jaw dropped and he was staring mutely into the sky behind the Sergeant's head. Bartel whirled around and immediately clapped a hand across his face.

"Cover your eyes!" he cried. "Don't look at it!"

But the Sergeant did not heed his own warning. Spreading his fingers carefully, he peered through at the awesome mushroom-shaped cloud of fire boiling up into the higher heavens, growing and spreading in silent majesty, many miles to the northeast.

The gunner had come to his feet with both hands clenched in front of him, his lips moving soundlessly in unspoken tribute which mere mortals reserve for absolute power. In a small corner of his awareness, Bartel heard the shrilly terrified piping of a young boy's voice crying, "What is it? Dad, what is that?"

Then
the sound
arrived, like ten thousand freight trains thundering overhead at once.

"Hit the deck!" Bartel screamed. He flung himself forward into the new-plowed earth and burrowed frantically with his body, burying his face nose-down in the smelly mixture.

Something seemed to be tearing at his backside. He pulled his face out of the mud, gulped air wildly, then fought the unseen centrifugal-like force to get his head back down again. His right leg was suddenly ripped from the mud mooring and he found himself tumbling madly across an open field.

Then, as suddenly as it had come, it was gone. Bartel raised to an elbow and gazed into the sky. The ball of fire was still there and still expanding, but it seemed higher than before. The sound continued, but distant now and like constant thunder.

Bartel shivered, shook his head viciously, ran fingers into both ears and manipulated his numbed organs, his jaws straining in an effort to unblock the ears. His eyes smarted and he felt like he'd been trampled by a herd of steers. He pulled himself erect, examined his person gingerly, then set off at a slow and uneven trot across the field and towards the jeep. His two companions were nowhere to be seen.

Three white people stood in the roadway, gazing with hand-shaded eyes into the heavens.

One of these, a middle-aged man wearing Levi's and a flannel shirt, turned to stare dumbly at the sergeant.

"What do you make of it?" Henry Chambers asked the black soldier.

"Damnedest thing I ever saw," Bartel exclaimed.

"But what do you think it means?"

"Damned if I know. Carried me into the middle of that field over there. I don't see my buddies anywhere. You see them?"

The man was shaking his head and continuing to stare into the sky. He told the soldier,
"We
were lucky. We had good cover in that ditch. Thought for a minute it was going to pull us all out, though. Would've sucked Petey out for sure if / hadn't had hold of him. Man... would you
look
at that thing. What the hell could it mean?"

"It's the Asians, Dad," Wayne Chambers solemnly declared. "They're attacking us."

"God I bet . . ." Bartel said.

"Look look!" yelled young Pete. He was pointing toward the northwest, in the general direction of Arkansas, where another mushroom was boiling into view.

"Guess I'd better get back to my outfit," the soldier muttered.

"Good God, what could it mean?" Henry Chambers asked in a horrified voice.

"I guess it means we got a
real
war on our hands now," the Sergeant told him. "Listen. Are you folks going to be all right here? I mean . . . maybe we could give you shelter."

"No ... no ... we'll be okay. We have the storm cellar. Thanks, we'll be all right" Chambers was like a man in trance. "Good Lord,
look
at those things!"

"Well, I better find my buddies and rejoin." Bartel fidgeted slighdy, realizing for the first time the bizarre nature of this conversation on a rutted farm road. "Uh, listen. If you folks need it, we got a field hospital outside Yazoo City. You come there if you have to. Hear?"

"Yes, I hear," said Henry Chambers.

The black sergeant turned his back on the white people and walked dazedly to his jeep. It wasn't until he'd crawled behind the wheel that he realized that his face was caked with evil-smelling mud. He clawed at it with his fingertips as he backed the little vehicle down the torturous road. He leaned on the horn, hoping his driver and gunner were somewhere within earshot and able to hear.

And far to the south, another sun appeared in the sky.

CHAPTER 9

Some ten minutes before Sergeant Battel collected his dazed and battered comrades, Abraham Williams pushed a microphone back across his desk and sagged wearily forward onto his elbows. "It's all lost, Ned," he told the radio engineer. "Just when we had it all wrapped up, just when a bright new tomorrow was in sight for the black man, the damned hooligans messed it up again."

"Sort of like history repeating itself, Mr. Williams," the engineer replied quietly.

"I backed the wrong men down there. Damn me. I let the wrong element get in control down there."

"Well. . . you're not God, Mr. Williams."

"That's for sure," Williams snorted. "I guess I thought I was, though. I ordained myself one and look what it's turned into."

The engineer was trying to be comforting. He obviously did not believe his own words as he said, "Maybe something will happen yet. Maybe it can still turn out okay."

Williams raised his head with a grim smile. "And maybe not. You heard them, Ned. You heard the way they talked to me."

"Well ..."

"All of them. Jacksonville, New Orleans, Atlanta, Birmingham, all of them. They've lined up solidly behind Hatty. The
tong,
Bogan calls them. Small men of narrow vision who cannot handle power. How much longer can the world survive such men, Ned? Dammit.
Dammit\
I don't know what to do now. I've forgotten how to pray."

"Aw, you never forget how to do that, Mr. Williams. Tell you what ... I'll get us some coffee." The engineer departed, disappearing around a Rube Goldberg arrangement of radio sending and receiving equipment.

Williams stared around him, as though seeing for the first time the immensity of what had been accomplished by a defeated people in such an incredibly short time. All the years, all the work, all the ingenuity, all the prayers, all being tossed away for one glorious day of vengeance and insanity.

He pushed a pencil idly about the desk, wondering how Winston was taking the situation. How many hours ago had it been that he'd told the gutsy whitey that he needn't worry about Negro cooperation? Williams grunted with the memory of that scene. A letter of authority. Mr. Guts had wanted a letter of authority. Well, "Winston was on the spot now. Maybe he'd come up with something. Only God knew what . . . but just maybe the man would come up with something.

Ned Clemmons came scooting around the corner, coffee slopping from two cups. "Mike Winston is coming up on television," he announced excitedly. "Radio too. They're clearing everything off all the broadcast channels, telling everyone to stand by for an important announcement from the White House."

Williams lunged out of his chair and followed Clemmons into the lounge. He had just re-settled on a leather couch, a cup of coffee at his knee, when Michael Winston was introduced and the familiar face of his friend, the ex-nigger-tender, filled the big TV screen.

Winston had grown already, Williams decided, or else TV made people look different. A new expression seemed to frame his eyes, the lines about his mouth were firmer,

there was even something different in the slope of the shoulders.

"Approximately twenty minutes ago," Winston began, without preamble, "or at about 4:10 P.M., Eastern Standard Time, I ordered the Chief of the Automated Defense Command to launch a nuclear attack upon the United States of America." Then he paused, gazing steadily into the camera, apparentiy to give the nation's viewers a chance to assimilate the startling announcement."

He looks ready to eat nails,
Williams mused.
Did he say nuclear attack?"

"Before I conclude this announcement, the citizens of some of our southern states shall see evidence to confirm what I have just said. Now pay attention to my words and hear me all the way through. I have had no time to prepare this statement, so the words will not be fancy—only factual. These nuclear devices are to be triggered at extremely high altitudes. They will cause little or no damage to the land areas. There is no intent to harm any citizen, nor to damage any property. That is, in this first salvo. I repeat, in this
first
salvo. Call it a shot across the bow, if you wish. A warning salvo.

"The government of the United States, of which I am at this moment the sole authority, serves notice that it will not stand idly by and see the slaughter of Americans—whatever the race, whatever the reasons, whatever the provocation. It must stop, and it must stop immediately.

"I have just been given the sign that the first missiles have been launched. To any of you who cannot place love of country above personal grievances and animosities, I am telling you to look to the southern skies.
There
is more destruction than your mind can grasp.
There
is more power than you could experience in a lifetime.
There
is more authority than all the hatreds in the nation can assemble collectively. And
there
is the power and the authority of the United States government.

"And now I speak directly to the citizens of Florida,

Mississippi, Georgia, Alabama, Arkansas and South Carolina. Stop the killing! Black man, go back to your military base. White man, go to your home. Do so immediately. I am a surgeon, and at this moment you are a cancerous growth upon the tail of this country. I will not hesitate to cut off the offending growth—tail and all—if that is what is required to save the rest of the body.

"The next salvo of nuclear-tipped missiles fired by direction of this government will not be across the bow. They will not explode harmlessly in the heavens. They will come in at their level of maximum effect.

"This ultimatum has already been communicated to Negro Army Commands. This is the only means I have of communicating with the white community. You've got until five o'clock, Eastern time. Five o'clock. That's all the time you've got."

Winston glared balefully into the camera for a brief moment of silence, then he whirled and walked away. Howard Silverman took his place in front of the camera and began amplifying Winston's remarks.

Ned Clemmons turned an owlish stare to Abraham Williams. "God damn," he said in an awed voice. "An atomic shot across the bow. What do you think of that?"

"That gutsy bastard," Williams said, grinning. "He's found his letter of authority."

CHAPTER 10

Michael Winston was at his office window, one hand clenching the heavy folds of drapery, staring silently out upon the southern skies. His shoulders were slumped wearily, his shirt open at the neck and tie dangling, his eyes red-rimmed with anxiety and fatigue.

He turned away from the window and let his eyes travel slowly about the provisional office of the United States. Jackson Bogan, in rumpled khakis, reclined stiffly on a leather couch. Howard Silverman sat slumped across the telephone turret, his head resting on crossed arms. Colonel Stanley sat stiffly in a straight wooden chair, a red telephone on his lap.

That red phone had been in use a few hours earlier. Peking had called to announce the discontinuance of their "war games exercise" and to inform the new U.S. government that China stood solidly beside them in their bid for freedom. The head of the provisional government had thanked Peking for their good wishes and had assured them that the U.S. would do its best in the future to relieve the Asian peoples in their food crisis.